


Structure

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Aggression, Dominance, Love Confessions, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Sloppy Makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-04 22:51:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1796167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s not even that Tamaki does anything particularly out of the ordinary, for the wide boundaries of ‘ordinary’ the blond encompasses." Kyoya's composure snaps and Tamaki reaps the rewards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Structure

Kyoya has been doing  _well_.

He has a great deal of self-restraint in general. It’s part of being politic, after all, smiling and nodding and maintaining perfect politeness regardless of how he is actually feeling. It’s security, too; with a strong enough mask people only ever see what he wants them to see, only ever judge what he wants them to judge. That’s its own form of power as much as money and influence, and Kyoya has never been choosy about what kind of power he collects.

It doesn’t make sense that Tamaki can tear through his defenses so fast. Kyoya’s dealt with more canny people, older and more experienced and far less trusting of his own feigned innocence; by all rights the other boy should be easily controlled, easy to manipulate, easy to  _manage_. It takes Kyoya months to realize what the problem is, why it is that he can’t get a handle on his emotions when Tamaki is around, why the blond’s voice grates on his nerves and wears him down to the razor-edged self he is usually so careful to cover.

It all makes sense when he realizes he’s in  _love_. Love is supposed to make people crazy, after all; just because he hadn’t experienced it before doesn’t make him immune to the symptoms, even if in his case those express as amusement primarily at the blond’s expense and an inability to keep his aggression properly under control. Still, Kyoya thinks he has things in hand, for the most part, and he keeps thinking that right up until the moment he suddenly doesn’t.

It’s not even that Tamaki does anything particularly out of the ordinary, for the wide boundaries of ‘ordinary’ the blond encompasses. They’re under the kotatsu --  _Tamaki’s_  kotatsu, Kyoya would never have bought one except that the other boy kept pleading for it -- while Kyoya reviews his already-completed homework and Tamaki lies on the floor and occasionally kicks Kyoya’s ankle accidentally. Kyoya doesn’t tell him to stop. He doesn’t tell him he likes the contact either.

“Kyoya.” Tamaki’s voice has the speculative whine that shatters Kyoya’s concentration entirely, that pulls a resigned sigh from the other boy and an instantaneous headache.

“What do you want.” He’s still looking down at the paper in front of him to make a point of exactly how  _much_  Tamaki is interrupting him. Of course, he’s not really seeing anything anymore, and Tamaki ignores this particular hint, so it’s ultimately an exercise in futility, as things with Tamaki frequently are.

“We should go to a monkey park!”

Kyoya does look away from the page then, tips sideways so he can see Tamaki. The blond is lying flat on the floor, blinking at the ceiling with eyes sparkling with the novelty of this idea. His hair is spilled around his head in a messy halo and his mouth is slightly open, like the excellence of his idea has rendered him incapable of closing it. He looks idiotic, and childish, and breathtakingly gorgeous. It is really not fair at all. If Kyoya  _had_  to fall in love with his best friend couldn’t he have been a little less  _insane_? Then Tamaki tips his head to smile at Kyoya, and the other boy’s heart seizes painfully in his chest, and he forces himself to gust a sigh of irritation instead of a whimper of desire.

“No, we  _shouldn’t_ ,” he says instead, though he doesn’t look back to his homework. It’s more entertaining to watch the way Tamaki’s face falls, the way his mouth drops into a frown of disappointment, the way he sits up into Kyoya’s personal space desperate with enthusiasm.

“It’s a great idea!” Tamaki reaches out to grab at Kyoya’s arm, shake him gently to underline his point, and if Kyoya sometimes deliberately shoots down Tamaki’s ideas for exactly this experience the blond never has to know. “Come on, Kyoya, take me to one, it’ll be fun.”

“Your sense of fun is fundamentally flawed,” Kyoya says, and when he pulls his arm he does so gently, so Tamaki keeps his hold and comes in closer. “You are an idiot.”

“You always say that,” Tamaki grins. “You’re so mean to me.” He’s smiling, he’s leaning in, and some part of Kyoya’s brain, the calculating part that never ever turns off, calculates how close he is, calculates that Kyoya is feeling Tamaki’s breath against his mouth, calculates how easy it would be to kiss him.

“Get off,” Kyoya hears himself saying, his voice dropping into the harsh sincerity he almost never uses, and he reaches up to shove hard at Tamaki’s shoulder. The other boy isn’t expecting the impact and falls backward harder than Kyoya intended; he ends up sprawled over the floor where he was a moment ago, except now the delight in his eyes is turning to a little hurt and a lot of confusion before Kyoya makes himself look away.

“Kyoya?” Tamaki’s voice is as confused as his eyes. Kyoya hunches forward over the homework he hasn’t seen in minutes, tries to slow his breathing and collect himself back to control. At least he’s not blushing. There’s no heat under his skin, just cold fright at his own almost slip. It was  _never_  supposed to be that close, not  _ever_ , this was supposed to be something he dealt with on his own. If he can’t keep himself reined in…

“What’s wrong?” Tamaki’s close again, he’s leaning in like he’s deliberately trying to undermine Kyoya’s desperate hold on his resistance. “You’re actually angry, aren’t you.” He  _would_  choose this exact moment to be perceptive. There’s a faint touch at Kyoya’s wrist, just over the cuff of his dress shirt, just against the exposed skin. Kyoya has to shut his eyes against the flare of sensation Tamaki’s fingers spark. Can he really not feel that electricity crackling between them?

“Don’t touch me,” Kyoya snaps. He pulls his arm away but Tamaki isn’t  _going_ , he’s reaching out again for the other boy’s shoulder, now. At least it’s not skin-to-skin, but it means the blond is leaning in  _much_  closer than he was before. When Kyoya glances up Tamaki’s face is barely inches away; all he can see is the unreasonable violet of the other boy’s eyes, the elegant lines of his features drawn into concern that just manages to make him  _more_  attractive.

“We don’t have to go,” Tamaki is saying, but his eyes are starting to go liquid with almost-tears, and if Kyoya weren’t actively fighting against his impulses at the moment he would cave immediately to that expression. “If you don’t want to…”

He’s pouting. It’s not fair, it’s not  _fair_ , some childish part of Kyoya is wailing for a sense of justice he thought he eradicated years ago. If there were any fairness he would be the eldest son instead of the forgotten youngest, and he would be in love with a reasonable, intelligent, attractive girl instead of an entirely insane idiotic half-French boy. If there were any fairness Tamaki would have backed away when Kyoya  _told_  him to instead of leaning in closer, pouting until he’s all but offering his mouth for a kiss. Or at least Kyoya would have the self-control to hold himself back, to shove Tamaki back to the floor and remove himself from temptation instead of what he does do, which is grab a fistful of Tamaki’s shirt and drag him in over the corner of the kotatsu so Kyoya can crush his mouth against that pouting lip.

The satisfaction is instantaneous. Kyoya’s entire body relaxes: tension he didn’t know he had drains out of his shoulders, his mouth softens to gentleness on Tamaki’s, even his fist on the other’s clothes goes looser. When he exhales it’s a sigh laced with the pleasure of  _years_  of restraint, the sound purring itself close on the edge of a moan before he can catch it back.

Then Tamaki makes a sound, a whimper far back in his throat, his hand still on Kyoya’s shoulder shifts, and Kyoya shoves before he thinks about it, pushes the blond back as the fastest way to get their lips apart. His brain shifts into overdrive, looking for an explanation or an excuse, reason or logic or  _something_ , and encounters nothing but dead-ends at every turn.

“Oh,” Tamaki says from the floor. Kyoya looks at him before he has his expression under control, while his eyes are still wide with the sweeping horror of what he’s done. At least Tamaki’s not looking at him. He’s staring at the ceiling again, lips parted and eyes opened wide with shock. As Kyoya watches he brings one hand up, presses graceful fingers to his mouth, and the other boy isn’t sure if the action is deliberately coordinated with the situation or if this is another example of Tamaki accidentally doing exactly the right thing at exactly the right time. “Oh.”

“Are you going to say anything else?” Kyoya asks. He means for it to sound snappish, cutting with condescension, but something he doesn’t expect twists in his throat so it just comes out raw and shaking with the expectation of rejection.

That gets Tamaki to look at him, his fingers still pressing indentation into his lip, and Kyoya’s gaze drops to that crease with absolutely no chance for him to control his reaction. Tamaki is starting to blush, color seeping under his skin to turn his face from porcelain to tomato-red, and that shouldn’t be attractive either and is anyway.

“I --” Tamaki starts, but whatever he was going to say dies in his throat. All the tension that faded briefly from Kyoya’s body is back now, back and amplified tenfold until Kyoya can barely remember to blink and his breathing is skipping out of rhythm. “You kissed me.”

“You’re as clever as always,” Kyoya notes dryly, but the sarcasm helps bleed off the worst of the panic from his muscles.

“But.” Tamaki lurches upright. His hair falls forward with the movement, swinging into perfect disarray around his face. “But you  _kissed_  me.”

“What about this is so challenging for you to understand?” Kyoya asks. He ignores the way his voice is shaking in his throat, carries on with the self-assured force he can at least imitate even under stress and a hefty dose of recklessness. “I have a low opinion of your comprehension at the best of times, but it seems I’ve overestimated you. Again.”

“You’ve never kissed me before.” Tamaki’s eyes are wider than Kyoya has ever seen them. The other boy can’t look away from that gaze, can’t so much as blink, much less move. He’s maintaining the haughty lift to his chin only through sheer force of will, his hands are starting to visibly shake before he slides them off the table and into his lap to hide the motion. “W--why did you kiss me?”

He won’t stop  _saying_  it, every time Tamaki’s lips form around that verb Kyoya’s skin prickles with heat and his stomach swoops with fresh realization of what he’s done. He can’t decide if it’s regret or adrenaline washing through his veins, and it doesn’t matter anyway; he tips his head, raises an eyebrow and forces a lopsided smirk in spite of his racing heart. “You must have at least a guess for that.”

Tamaki must be  _deeply_  flustered; he doesn’t even rise to the bait for his standard egotism. There is no facade anywhere on his face; the last time Kyoya saw the blond look like this Tamaki was talking about his family. “You  _like_  me?”

He sounds so  _floored_  that Kyoya’s teeth grind together. Why did it have to be  _now_  that Tamaki starts doubting his attractiveness, why did it have to be this  _exact_  moment that he decides to act like an actual person instead of God’s gift to mankind?

“Of course I  _like_  you,” Kyoya grits out. His hand snaps out, closes on Tamaki’s rumpled shirtfront again, but he doesn’t pull him in closer, just squeezes the fabric like it will help soothe the irritation flooding him. “Haven’t you seen a  _mirror_?”

“Ah.” Some of the confusion fades out of Tamaki’s eyes; Kyoya sees his mistake a moment before the blond goes on. “So it’s just my good looks, then.”

“ _No_.” Kyoya’s voice is grating in his throat but he can’t control it any more than he can control the jerk of his arm as he shakes the blond in a futile effort to force intelligence into him. “No, of  _course_  it’s not just that. You are an  _actual_  idiot.” Tamaki’s mouth is open on something as useless as he usually offers but Kyoya doesn’t give him a chance to say it; he’s leaning in over the edge of the kotatsu again, grabbing a handful of blond hair to hold Tamaki still so he can crush another kiss against the other boy’s mouth without knocking him over backwards.

“You think I don’t have better reasons that  _that_?” He shoves again so Tamaki falls backward but he’s advancing now, sliding out from under the kotatsu so he can swing himself over the blond’s legs and hold Tamaki in place by his own weight. The other boy is making no effort to get away; in fact he looks perfectly submissive, lying still on the floor and gazing up at Kyoya, although the shock is fading from his eyes and there’s tension at the corner of his mouth.

“I have  _excellent_  reasons for everything I do,” Kyoya reminds Tamaki while he braces himself with a hand on the other boy’s shoulder and leans down to kiss the blond back against the floor. “This is just as beneficial to me as anything else.”

Tamaki makes an incoherent sound, mostly shock and a little bit a sigh, and Kyoya reaches down to push the blond’s t-shirt up an inch so he can dig his fingers into warm-radiant skin. The tension he lost so briefly is back, winding violent through his thoughts and into his fingers until he wants to scratch, wants to bite and claw and shove until Tamaki whimpers, until the other boy is giving secondhand voice to the desperate pain aching through Kyoya’s body. He doesn’t, at least not entirely. He does push harder than he intends, until Tamaki coughs on a breath he can’t quite take for the fingers digging in against his waist, but he doesn’t bite, just shoves hard and  _takes_  when Tamaki’s mouth opens under his. Tamaki tastes spicy-sweet, like cinnamon candy, and he smells like flowers, like springtime and grass and roses. Kyoya has known what the blond smelled like for a long time, now, has tried to not think about it when he’s alone and insomniac with want, but he  _knows_ , and to have the blond’s skin so close and radiating what has always been so elusive is as intoxicating as the tentative response of the other boy’s lips under his.

There’s no coherency at all for a minute, or two, or three -- Kyoya doesn’t know how long it’s been, a small eternity and no time at all, since he got Tamaki under him and the taste of the blond in his mouth and the other boy kissing him  _back_ , fingers tentatively settling against his back and in his hair until he can’t remember how to breathe and can’t remember why he should need to. It’s Tamaki who speaks first, when Kyoya gets distracted by the curve of his neck and slides down to lick against the loose edge of the blond’s collar while musician’s fingers wind into his hair.

“Don’t leave marks above my collar.” He sounds breathless, his voice catching high like it sometimes does when he has a really spectacularly bad idea. “I need to be able to cover them.”

Kyoya doesn’t protest. It’s a good point, for one thing, and for another there is implied permission there, permission that is underscored when he pushes at the fabric bunched around Tamaki’s waist and the blond arches up off the floor to assist with the motion. Tamaki’s breathing hard, Kyoya can hear the drag of his breath ragged in his throat, and he doesn’t even realize he’s gasping for air himself until he presses his mouth just below the other boy’s collarbone and can feel the reflection of his own exhales back at him. Tamaki wiggles, lets go of Kyoya’s hair so he can pull his shirt free entirely, but Kyoya is lost, his teeth against porcelain skin and the warmth of Tamaki under his mouth wiping out all his calculations in an instant. His fingers dig hard into Tamaki’s waist, the blond hisses and almost-laughs, and when Kyoya pulls back there’s an imprint of his mouth like a brand against Tamaki’s shoulder, a dark bruise in the shape of his lips and teeth.

“So how is this beneficial to you?” Tamaki asks, making a desperate bid for a forced casual tone that even he can’t quite manage. “I don’t see the advantage.”

“There’s plenty of advantage.” Kyoya’s voice is lower, huskier than it usually is; he pauses, clears his throat, carefully modulates his words back to calm while he lets his grip on Tamaki’s hip go, traces his fingers up as delicately as he can stand over the blond’s bare skin. Tamaki shivers, and Kyoya is sure that this response is genuine. He can always tell, with Tamaki. “I’m attaching myself to you, for one thing.”

“You already are,” Tamaki points out, reasonably for all that he’s breathy. Kyoya settles his palm against the other boy’s shoulder, braces him flat on the floor and starts coming back down his body, with his other hand this time. “We run the club together.”

“ _Your_  club,” Kyoya corrects. He’s not looking at Tamaki’s face; his eyes are following his fingers, down over the darkening bruise, the tremble of the other boy’s stomach, the sharp edge of his hip just above his jeans. “I only joined as a favor to you.”

“But I’m not useful to you,” Tamaki points out.

“Not yet.” Kyoya’s fingers come down to the front of Tamaki’s jeans; he hesitates before he pulls at the button, but the blond doesn’t so much as whimper to indicate any hesitation, so he starts to work it open while he goes on talking. “You could be someday, though. And it’s always good to have allies.”

Tamaki lets the evasion stand, though even he must be able to see through that. Then again, he might be somewhat incapacitated at the moment; Kyoya’s just got his jeans unzipped, is just reaching in to press his fingers in against the other boy, and from the way Tamaki gasps and bucks up against Kyoya’s hands he’s somewhat distracted. Kyoya grins, vicious with the delighted rush of  _control_ , of having total power over Tamaki even if just for a moment, and he’s watching Tamaki’s eyes start to glaze with pleasure as he gets his hand past fabric to wrap his fingers hard around the other boy’s cock. Tamaki’s hard before Kyoya even touches him, which is vastly more gratifying than it should be, almost as thrilling as the way he arches up off the floor into the other’s touch before Kyoya can get his other hand bracing on Tamaki’s stomach to shove him flat again.

“Stop wiggling,” he orders, although it has no effect on the blond’s movements. It doesn’t matter. Kyoya is fully capable of holding Tamaki down, and it’s more for the charm of the command on his tongue than the expectation of actual obedience that he speaks. His head is spinning, all his calculations are shattered and gone; his fingers are burning with heat, like Tamaki is the sun and Kyoya’s skin is going golden with contact instead of melting away. He’s got his fingers around the blond’s length, he’s stroking over him harder than he intended, fast and sharp with the aggression of finally freed repression, and Tamaki is shivering and gasping and whimpering in response to his touch, and every sound is setting Kyoya’s blood on fire.

Tamaki’s fingers close on Kyoya’s wrist, the blond manages, “Kyoya, slo-slower, you’re going too fast.”

Kyoya doesn’t  _want_  to go slower. Slowing down is the last thing he wants. He’s  _always_  cool, he always has himself under control; this is new, this sense of his body running away with him, his heart pounding his breathing into desperation while he watches Tamaki go to pieces under him,  _because_  of him. So he hisses, and he doesn’t slow down, and he growls, “Am I  _hurting_  you?”

Tamaki whimpers, lets go of Kyoya’s hand so he can cover his face with one hand. Kyoya can feel him try to rock up into the other boy’s hand in contradiction to his plea, even before he says, “No, it doesn’t hurt.”

“Then stop  _complaining_ ,” Kyoya purrs, and when he resettles himself and keeps going Tamaki doesn’t offer any more protest beyond the shaking half-thrusts that are more encouragement than anything else. Kyoya can see when Tamaki’s self-awareness starts to go, not long after the blond’s plea; the hand covering his flushed face comes down to his mouth, there’s an edge of white teeth setting against his own hand in an attempt to muffle the now-constant whimpers that are coming in time with his breathing. Kyoya doesn’t move to help him, just keeps the other boy braced on the floor and keeps jerking him off hard and fast with the force of months of held-back want breaking free. The blond’s eyes are out-of-focus, have been for a while, but his throat is working around sounds Kyoya can’t make out properly although they’re getting louder with every passing minute. Then Kyoya twists his hand hard, drags his thumb sideways and his fingers up fast, and Tamaki jerks on the floor and even around his hand the wailed “ _Kyoya_ ” is perfectly audible as he comes.

Kyoya laughs while Tamaki is still gasping air, amusement pouring up out of his throat with no calculation and no restraint, the way he only ever laughs around Tamaki. The perpetual strain in his neck is gone as if it was never there, even with his body aching with as-yet unfulfilled want he’s relaxing, breathing deeply as he has forgotten he could. Tamaki is staring blankly at the ceiling, still shivering in the last ripples of sensation; he barely moves even when Kyoya moves his hand to the blond’s shoulder and fits his thumb in against the mark his teeth left earlier. He does laugh weakly, lifts one shaking hand to touch the edge of the other boy’s jeans as Kyoya pulls at the button one-handed.

“Don’t,” Kyoya snaps, slapping the blond’s hand away even though the impact just makes Tamaki keep laughing. “You’ll only get in the way.” He’s smiling around his irritation, though, and Tamaki doesn’t seem to take offense, just tips his head without lifting it and blinks his eyes back into focus on the other boy’s face.

“You really do like being in charge, don’t you?” the blond comments.

Kyoya’s just getting his jeans open; he doesn’t pause in that goal, but he does glance at Tamaki’s face, raises his eyebrows and presses his thumb in against the darkening bruise so the blond hisses, more startled than pained. “Are you only just now noticing that?”

Tamaki laughs again, his smile flashing over his face like sunshine. “You look like you again.”

“Evil, you mean?” Kyoya asks, mostly just to keep Tamaki talking. He’s got his jeans open now, pushed down the inch or two he needs to wrap his fingers around himself with familiar pressure; it’s just like it always is his head except that his eyes are open, Tamaki’s smile is warmer than he ever remembers and Kyoya can feel the other boy breathing under his touch.

“Yeah.” Tamaki reaches up to touch Kyoya’s cheek, just under the thin frame of his glasses, and Kyoya lets him. His fingers are gentle in contrast to Kyoya’s own hold, stroking heat in their wake and so careful Kyoya’s breath catches in his throat more from that than the satisfaction of his hand stroking over his length.

“So what,” Tamaki says after a moment. His voice has dropped into its normal register, if a bit more breathless than he usually sounds; the teasing lilt under the sound makes Kyoya smile without thinking. “You’ve been pining for me all this time?”

“No,” Kyoya retorts. He shoves down harder on Tamaki’s shoulder but the blond just laughs, hooks his fingers in around the top edge of Kyoya’s shirt so he’s touching the other boy’s collarbone. It shouldn’t mean anything -- Kyoya’s been shirtless around the blond before, Tamaki has touched him dozens of times -- but it feels weirdly intimate, the push of fingertips under the border of his clothes, so he has to blink and pause and recollect his thoughts. “I’ve  _had_  you, I didn’t need to  _pine_.”

“I guess that wouldn’t be your style,” Tamaki muses. His eyes are following his fingers, drifting down Kyoya’s neck. His full attention is turned on the other boy, the intensity in his eyes all for Kyoya as it so rarely is, without the distraction of insane ideas or the presence of others, and the thrill of that is better than if Tamaki were actually jerking him off himself. Kyoya’s breathing comes out as a growl of satisfaction, and when Tamaki opens his mouth to keep talking he leans back on his knees and moves the hand on Tamaki’s shoulder to shove his fingers past the blond’s lips as forcible silence.

“Shut up.” The words come out raw and uncovered, all his usual facade torn away. Tamaki doesn’t flinch, like he didn’t flinch that first time Kyoya’s mask cracked, that first moment when Kyoya stared at the lack of fear in his face and realized he was irrevocably in love. The memory is as intoxicating as the focus of Tamaki’s eyes on him, as thrilling as the touch still dragging over Kyoya’s chest, and when the blond tips his head and licks against the other boy’s fingers it’s too much. Kyoya can feel the rush coming, the flush of uninhibited pleasure washing over his skin, and when he groans and comes it’s all across Tamaki’s bare chest.

Tamaki’s still sucking on his fingers when he pulls them free; the blond doesn’t move to sit up, just blinks at Kyoya and smiles as if this hasn’t fundamentally shattered Kyoya’s framework of the world. Kyoya can’t even be irritated, not in the face of that smile. He would do anything for Tamaki when the blond looks at him like that, even rebuild the structure of his life from the ground up. It’s not like he hasn’t done it before, after all.


End file.
